


The Little Christmas Angel (Tree, Lights, Gift, Sweater, Party)

by Burnadette_dpdl



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Holiday, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 00:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burnadette_dpdl/pseuds/Burnadette_dpdl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious object tops the Christmas tree at the Rue Royale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Christmas Angel (Tree, Lights, Gift, Sweater, Party)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks in part to Stellie, for reminding me that I do love to write this stuff! This was a challenge, as I rarely do such fluff, seems I have a burning need for it right now. This is also partially a tribute to Gairid, one of my favorite writers, AND this references one of my favorite of her sillier pieces (http://archiveofourown.org/works/657770) ;]

Lestat had outdone himself dressing the tree. Gone were the cumbersome thick-wired lights, replaced by tiny LEDs, countless droplets of twinkling rain on delicate silver wires. Silver tinsel, in motion from the light breeze, magnified the effect in bursts. I took stock of our many ornaments, collected over time, most more precious than expensive. I let my eyes travel slowly upwards, revisiting the memories.

The crowning ornament had also been usurped this year, by a strangely familiar object. It appeared to be a papier-mâché purple dildo, with glittered fairy wings! Perhaps six inches in height, and staring resolutely heavenward. _Mon dieu._

Lestat made a theatrical gesture of dusting his hands off as he entered the room and looked to me for approval of his handiwork.

“You know that I adore your hand-made gifts, _mon lion_ , but this particular ornament...” No need to point to it, for we were both watching it as if it might spring to life.

He made a dismissive gesture. “I didn't make it. I _certainly_ wouldn't have chosen to make it _purple_.”

“Oh?” I turned to face him. “Well, it is certain to be a conversation piece when the others arrive. Is that what you want?”

“It's not about what I want. It was a gift from a _fan_ , who signed off simply as 'G'. We can't take it down.”

“Why not? Are you afraid of this _'G'?”_ I smiled and gave him a mocking punch.

“I'm not afraid. It's just-” he deflated slightly, then met my gaze. “It came with an ominous message, that it be 'Given a prominent place through New Year's day,' and, it being _purple_... well, it reminded me of an object I'd prefer to forget.” Lestat gave me a warm smile, but I caught the flash of concern in his eyes. We have a healthy respect for that which we cannot explain, especially when it comes to mysterious objects. Voodoo may be as real as vampires.

“Not that I believe in that sort of thing, you realize,” He said, straightening his posture and folding his arms across his chest, facing the tree to study the 'angel' in question.

I ran a hand appreciatively through his hair, and reassured him in our older French that it could remain there as long as the tree was up. He turned to me, taking my hand, and kissed the backs of my fingers.

Snaking his other hand around my waist, inside my sweater, Lestat added authoritatively: “Besides, could be terribly bad luck to take it down too soon.”

“Indeed. Best not tempt the Fates.” I breathed into his ear, and then leaned back in the circle of his arms, pressing my hips firmly to his. “In fact, our little angel has inspired me to dine in. Monsieur, can I make a reservation for Your Room, later this evening?”

“Depends. How many in your party?” He smirked, swaying me gently.

“Just two.” I ran my fingers up his neck and his smile warmed.

“Oh? Am I invited?” He asked.

“Hmmm... let me see,” I ghosted my lips over his. He shivered and my heart swelled.

“It wouldn't be a party without you, _mon coeur_.”


End file.
